


Bad Moon Rising

by Vivian



Category: Supernatural, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Blowjobs, Cocaine, Hurt/Comfort, Impala, Jerk & Bitch, Lots of Rock Music, M/M, Plot with some sexy times, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's after midnight but still a lifetime till dawn. Pale spotlights glimmer through the rain. A '67 Chevrolet Impala comes slowly to a stop.</p><p>You can read this without either knowledge of the fandoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Moon Rising

 

The night is pitch-black. Rain is falling from the sky. Fast and hard the drops shatter on the abandoned high way. To its right and left the black silhouettes of trees lead into an old fir forest.

It's after midnight but still a lifetime till dawn. Pale spotlights glimmer through the rain. A '67 Chevrolet Impala comes slowly to a stop.

The windows are damp from breath. Inside a man with shoulder-long stringy blond hair in a white tank top dials a number into a cell phone.

“Hello?” he hears over the crackling line.

“It's me. I need your help, Hunter.”

 

_ஓ_

 

 

__A few hours earlier._ _

 

“ _Tony? Why the fuck did you leave the light on?” mutters Sarah as she pulls the cover up to her chin. “I've told you so often!”_

_Tony stands up again, a frown on his face._

“ _Sorry babe,” he says and turns off the light, then walks back to the bed. She smiles and comes a bit closer._

_The next second, the light is on, again._

“ _What the fuck?”, murmurs Tony and stands up._

“ _Tony? Tony don't! What if someone's in here …”_

_But Tony doesn't listen and closes the door behind him. There's nothing in the hallway. Strange. Electrics. Never understood that. He shrugs, turns off the light and wants to open the door to the bedroom. Suddenly the light is on._

“ _Wha —?“_

 

_She hears him scream. When she runs outside to look for him, his blood spatters right into her face ._

 

 

_ஓ_

 

 

 

“You can be happy I was home,” Hunter mutters when he gets in the car. Shawn just smiles at him.

“What do I need to know?”

The story doesn't take long to be told. The couple went to bed as usual, lights went on, man got out looking, woman heard him scream. The man was torn apart.

“Sounds like an angry ghost to me. Why do you need me on this?” Hunter asks and watches him.

“Thought you knew the area and we'd find the bones of that ghost faster.”

“Yeah. Sure. If you wanted to see me again you could've just asked.” He smiles.

“Well I did, didn't I?” Shawn smirks and throws him a side glance. He's grown up since that night he picked him up. It's nearly three years since that moment at the gas station.

 

He went to pay for his fuel. When he came back that tall guy was standing in front of his Impala. Staring at his baby in awe.

Real beauty ain't she? Shawn said and leaned against her, pursing his lips. The guy, he must have been in his early twenties, looked at him. He had white blond hair and and a big nose. He nodded.

Shawn smirked at him.

Wanna take a ride?

He didn't know what made him ask. Thought the kid would punch him in the face though. Or just go away. Well he didn't.

They were in his car. Silence all around them. Just the steady sound of the engine. The wheels on the highway. He was speeding, but the kid didn't say a word.

An hour later and the kid eventually asked: Where are we going?

Wherever you want.

 

Sometimes life is strange. Sometimes it throws gold at you and all you have to do is pick it up. In equal measures sometimes life can just fuck you up.

 

Shawn figured that kid was not the talking kind but he could tell there was something behind these whiskey coloured eyes.

He would find out soon enough. In dimly lit motel rooms, with their muddy footsteps on the floor, he would tell him. Quietly and without looking at Shawn, he would tell him.

About his mother who shot his father in the face one night. After he beat her again. And Hunter standing at the top of the stairs. Watching silently.

About his despair of what to do with his life. All he did was repairing cars but it somehow wasn't enough. Hunter wanted something more. And who could blame him for that?

The same faces every day. And the same small talk every day. The same questions. How's your dear mother, Helmsley? She better yet? She still in hospital? And the same answers, too. She'll be fine. Still in hospital. Send her my best wishes. Yeah, I'll do that.

 

Maybe that's why he took off with him.

They stayed on the road for a month. The third night, Shawn knocked on the door of his room and asked him if he wanted to help him with something. They tracked down some blood sucking fucker, catching him right in the act. Hunter was shocked but not that shocked. And when Shawn cut its head off with a fast and precise swing of his machete Hunter didn't even blink. The fifth night he slayed the rest of the pack with Shawn.

So that's what you do.

Yeah. Basically. Hunting. Funny, isn't it, Hunter ?

 

After that month he brought him back. It was no goodbye. Not really. It was how they started.

 

Shawn would call him every month or so and they'd go hunting together. Sometimes Hunter would come to him, at other times he'd pick him up. They would work the case, investigate and track down whatever it was that was killing people.

They'd stay in cheap motel rooms. Stains on the carped and the walls. Dirty bathrooms and bad coffee. A bit of Jacky to ease them into sleep.

Of course they bonded. Can't do much against it when you're back to back fighting for your life. That's just how humans work, isn't it?

 

The years went by. And not once has Hunter asked him why he invited him for a ride. He probably knew. Hunter always seems to know. What he feels. What he needs. And sometimes when he lies drunk on the bed and has swallowed too much pain killers Hunter just lies down next to him. Puts his strong arms around him and holds him. He brushes his hair back and rests his forehead against the back of his. He never says a word, because he doesn't need to.

 

 

They start their investigation with the victim. Flash their fake FBI batches and go see the corpse.

“Uh. A nasty one,” Shawn says as he looks at the torn flesh. “You can't even call that a body anymore.”

“I'm sure he has seen better days,” Hunter replies dryly. Shawn chuckles.

 

Next thing on their list is the wife. They move smoothly in their cheap suits and as always Shawn's smile is the doorway to a woman's heart. She tells them all about her marriage. Bit too much detail, but better too much than too less.

“Did he have any enemies? Maybe in the past?”

“I really don't know. I don't think so.”

They thank her. Shawn takes her hand and places his card on her palm. “Give us a call if you remember anything,” he says, she flushes and nods.

 

They're sitting in a dinner and Shawn shoves the third burger into his mouth as his phone rings. He gestures to his trousers and Hunter pulls the phone from his pocket. He listens, nods, thanks her.

“There you go,” he says and gives Shawn back his phone, “She just remembered he had this one woman, Trish Adams, that was in love with him. Well, he wasn't. Girl was desperate and hanged herself.”

“Women. Always so melodramatic” Shawn says smirking between another bite. “A'right, Hunt, let's kill the bitch.”

 

They drive to the local graveyard and start looking for Trish Adams.

Suddenly he's torn back. Pain piercing through his lower back. He gasps.

Falls to the muddy ground.

Hunter is with him in a second. Then he's thrown against the next tombstone. Shawn can see how Hunter's head hits the stone. He cries out his name.

“Thought it'd be so easy, huh? Thought you'd just go and burn her bones and all's fine, huh?” A woman appears from behind a tree. She's got dirty blond hair and a wicked smile.

“Honey, if you wanted me on the floor, all you had to do is ask,” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow. But damn, Hunter. He still doesn't move. Shit.

“Cocky aren't we? Well, you won't be when I cut your head off.”

“Love a though woman. Makes me all needy, y'know,” he breathes. Hunter's eyes flicker open.

“You shut up!” She sounds angry all of a sudden. Now she's close, looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed in disgust. And kicks him with her heel right in his best part. Shawn groans, he still can't move.

 

“You bitch!”

“Yeah, that's what men always call us, isn't it? Do you think Tony really didn't fuck my sister when he had the chance to? Of course he did. And not only once. Their affair lasted over a year. No matter how many times I'd tell my sister to stop, that he'd never get a divorce for her, she wouldn't listen.” Her heel in his stomach. And again.

But he can see Hunter stumbling to his feet.

“And now you go revenging your dear baby sis or what?”

“It's justice, not revenge. Justice! I've never used my witchcraft for anything bad. Except three days ago. Three days ago was my little sister's fourth day of death. And whom do I see in the café? Tony Kean that bastard flirting with a young redhead. That was just too mu—”

She's cut off by the stone Hunter throws at her head. With all the force of despair. She goes down immediately, hits her head on a grave. Shawn doesn't hesitate to kick her skull once more. And again.

“Leave it,” Hunter breathes. “She's dead.”

 

 

They're in their motel room and Shawn has his third Jack Daniel's. He walks over to the window and looks out into the pitch-black night. It's raining again.

He can feel Hunter's breath in his neck. He can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Finally he gives in. Leans back. Hunter's arms around him. His chin on Shawn's shoulder.

His eyes closed, he winds a hand in Hunter's hair and turns his head to kiss his cheek.

“It's all right, Shawn, I'm fine,” Hunter whispers.

 

 

 

Aerosmith's _The Farm_ is booming from the speakers of the Impala. Shawn hums along. He's three days into his next case. This time he's alone. Hunter's safe and sound at home. He tried to call, but Shawn didn't pick up.

So it's just him, his baby and Steven Tyler.

 

He's hunting a shape-shifter. To be honest, he could need some help. The fucker escaped him two times already.

It's late into the night. He isn't that tired, but the road gets worse and worse here in the middle of nowhere. So he pulls over at the next blinking motel sign he sees. It's not far to the next little shitty village. May be a slight chance there is a bar somewhere. Frustration always goes well with alcohol. And hell, he could really need a drink now.

Fifteen minutes later he's found a bar, just around the corner, god bless that motel. He goes in and orders two shots of Jägermeister. It's dark here and only a few people are in tonight. He gulps down the Jägermeister and orders another two. He takes them and sits down in a corner.

 

“Someone ever told you you drink too much?” A familiar voice says and he turns around, eyebrows raised. “Bret.”

“Shawn.”

He looks at that man in front of him, leaning casually at the wall. Bulky leather jacket over a black tank top. Tight black jeans. He looks into that bronze-kissed face. His eyes seem ebony in the dimly lit rooms, veiled by his dark brown curls that cling wetly to his face.

“Shouldn't always shower a minute before going out. Don't want to catch a cold, do ya?” Bret's lips twitch at that, but nothing more. Shawn sneers at him. “Have a drink with me?”

They sit down and Shawn slides the second glass over to Bret.

 

“Haven't seen ya in a while. What brings you here, man?”

“Followed a shape-shifter down from Illinois,” Bret replies.

“Yeah, me too.”

Bret drinks the Jägermeister in one go and winks at the waitress. A few minutes later they share a bottle of Jack.

He actually doesn't like Bret. There have been so many times they got into each other, over a case or over women. Over who was the better hunter or lover. They had a bad fight once, too. Stupid of him considering what Bret was capable of, but yeah you never miss a challenge when your name is Shawn Michaels. No matter if the one challenging you is an angel. But angel or not, Bret was still an annoying motherfucker. And he had deserved that kick in the face.

“How's your heavenly mission going?” Shawn asks and props his chin on his palm.

“Fuck you,” Bret says and takes another sip of whiskey.

 

For a while no-one says a word, then Bret takes out a little plastic bag and with skilful fingers and a credit card creates two nice, neat white lines on the dirty table.

“Guess you wanted some, too,” Bret whispers. A quick, dark smirk. He rolls a hundred dollar bill.

“Guess I do,” Shawn says and takes the bill.

 

 

“I fucking hate you,” Bret whispers roughly into his ear. Shawn laughs low in his throat.

“Guess wha'? Likewise.”

Bret has him up against the wall of his room and now he's close, so close and Shawn moves forward, brings them together. Nibs at Bret's earlobe while he fists a hand in his hair.

“C'mon, Bret. I know what you wanna do” he says throatily.

“Watch your dirty mouth,” Bret hisses and pushes him onto the bed. The next second he's on top of him.

“Yeah, why? Y'know it's the truth, honey.”

Bret violently shoves a hand over his mouth. For a second he can't breath, then he turns them over, kicking Bret away.

“Fuck you,” Bret spits and slides down until his knees hit the floor. He moves between Shawn's legs. With heavy lidded eyes Shawn watches while Bret opens his belt impatiently. Bret's jacket slid over one shoulder, revealing bronze-skin. Oh, he loves his heavenly tan. Shawn grins.

The next second he gasps for breath. Bret's mouth is hot and wet and he's sure to go to hell for fucking it. Twisting a hand in Bret's curls he guides him down more forcefully onto his cock. The angel doesn't complain. He takes all of him. Shawn wants to lie down, but he isn't missing that sight for the world. How he moves up and down and now and then just mouths the head of his cock.

 

Bret spits his come to the floor. He moves smoothly, soundless, then he's over him. Shawn pushes his jacket off, then Bret pulls his shirt over his head in a swift motion. His muscular bronze chest makes Shawn lick his lips. Fingers explore silky skin over hard muscles. The angel watches him, slightly parted lips, his view again veiled by the dark curls.

“Come closer,” Shawn whispers.

 

A moan falls from his lips. He's on top of Bret, his legs left and right to the other man and he's riding him slowly. Pushing himself up and then down again on Bret's hard cock. He feels a drop of sweat glide down his temple, over his neck, stopping where his collarbones meet. Bret catches it with his finger and nonchalantly licks it off. Dark curls spread on the pillow, ebony eyes focused on him. Shawn closes the short distance and kisses him, pushes his tongue inside and tastes him. He tastes nothing like an angel and all like whiskey and cigarettes and need. A bit of hate and loneliness, too.

Sliding a hand to Bret's neck he pulls him up with him. Now he's sitting in his lap and Bret lays an arm around him. The angel lazily runs a hand through his hair while never stopping thrusting up into Shawn. Another moan, louder this time and he pushes his lips to Bret's cheek. “Deeper,” he murmurs against the damp skin. And Bret complies.

 

They like to do it slowly but there's always that point when neither of them can keep up the control anymore. It's when the whole world shifts out of focus and it's only skin against skin. Need against need. Then Bret is on top, thrusting into him in a rough rhythm and Shawn clings to him like a drowning man. And in the end, that's what they are. Drowning men.

“God, do that again,” he groans and the blasphemy is lost between their bodies.

Bret's hand stroking him off and Bret's cock, deep inside him hitting that certain spot again and again. But it's Bret's low whimpered “Shawn”, so full of need and anger and lust that pushes him over the edge.

 

 

They share a cigarette. Their bodies entangled in the thin white blanket. He sucks the smoke from Bret's lips, then takes the cigarette from his fingers. Breathes in. Breathes out. Gives the cigarette back. Bret stands up, pulls the blanket around his hips and sucks on the cigarette while walking over to his jacket. The smoke crawls from his lips as they curve into a smile. He's back in the bed, another one-hundred dollar bill and a bit of white bliss in hand.

After that they fuck again. Roughly this time, panting fast, moving violently against each other.

 

 

“Well, how do we find that son of a bitch?” Shawn asks and raises his eyebrows.

“We make a trap.” Bret leans back against the Impala. Shawn's eyebrows draw closer together.

 

That's what they do. They follow the traces of that shape-shifter as far as they get.

Got him on security cams two times, his eyes reflecting the light so brightly it betrays his fake humanity. He's an old man, a police captain at the moment and he's just killed that real captain, too. Taking refugee in this man's home he tries to replace him. Stuff like that never really works for long.

But shape-shifters always try. Try to blend in. Try to have an own personality. A life even. Sometimes they stop killing, too. And maybe Shawn should have compassion or mercy. But he has not. Not since his mother burned on the ceiling when he was four. Not since hunting became his business, his purpose in life. He could have become something better. He had been a clever kid. But that is his decision. And he sure as hell will continue slaying these sons of bitches until he's too old and one of that fuckers gets him.

 

So they let the shifter know Shawn's there, on his tracks, but seemingly not that close yet. Consulting for the police as a fake FBI agent.

It's the perfect opportunity for the shifter. Getting rid of the hunter and then starting a new life. That's why Bret and him know he'll show up when Shawn seems vulnerable and out of place. When Shawn makes out a time to meet that police captain alone. For information and help.

 

He might not like Bret, might even hate him from time to time, but he's glad Bret is there. Has his back. Together they kill the shape-shifter, leaving the village the same night.

 

They're on the road and Mötley Crüe's _Life Wire_ plays in the background.

“Come on baby, gotta play with me,” he sings along, a cocky grin on his lips.

“Tsk, that an invitation?” Bret asks unimpressed. He's got his shades on and Shawn can't see if he just stares outside or whether he glances at him.

“Do you want it to be?”

That moment his phone rings. It's Hunter. For a second he thinks about just ignoring it. Then again, Hunter will be worried. Might even think he got killed on the job.

 

“Hey,” he says.

“Where the fuck are you, Shawn? Are you OK? Why didn't you call me back? God damn, I was fucking worried about you.”

“That your mother calling?” Bret asks with a mean glance in his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Shawn says.

“Who was that?” Hunter asks, anger and worry clearly audible.

“I'm fine, Hunt. Don't worry. Had a bit of trouble with a shape-shifter. Got help. All's fine now.”

“Yeah except I thought you might be choking on your own blood!”

“As I said, I'm fine. Not even a scratch.”

 

“Fuck you, Shawn.” He is still angry, Shawn knows that, but the relief is stronger.

“Y'know, I'd have called you back sooner or later, just … kinda busy at the moment.”

“What?”

“Got company.”

Silence is the only answer he gets to that.

“Hey, look. Gonna pick you up in two days?”

“OK.”

“A'right. See you, Hunt.”

“See you Shawn.”

 

He pulls over, the next heart beat his fist crushes into Bret's jaw. He takes the blow without a word.

“That was for my mother, asshole.”

Bret doesn't say anything, he doesn't hit him back, either.

Shawn starts the engine again. Outside, the sun is going down. It has been cloudy all day so it's merely the change from grey to black. No stars. Just the wind howling outside.

When he pulls down the window, the air is still warm, sizzling with tension.

There's gonna be a storm tonight.

 

They don't find a motel fast enough. So they sit in the back-seats of the Impala and watch the wind rising. To their right and left are grainfields, painted anthracite by the night. The squall sweeps through them in one big blow. The force is tangible, even inside.

They look at each other. Then it seems as if the heavens crumble. A noise as if the sky broke apart. Growling deep and cracking and ear-shattering. Shawn's laugh is mute against the storm.

He wishes Hunter would be here to witness this with him. But there's only Bret beside him, unafraid, trying to look bored when Shawn knows he's everything but.

 

“Where will you go?” Shawn asks him quietly after the thunder. Lighting crawls in a cracked bright white line over the sky.

“I don't know,” Bret says. Because Bret doesn't have a place to return to either. He knows that.

And maybe that's why he leans in and kisses him softly. And maybe that's why Bret closes his eyes and puts a hand in Shawn's neck. Gently he dips his tongue into Bret's warm, wet mouth. Their lips move against each other. Slowly, without a hurry and when they end the kiss neither of them can look into the other one's eyes.

They turn back to the window and watch the storm enfold.

 

 

He drops Bret off somewhere between Franklin and Portland. They don't say good bye. Bret only nods at him and Shawn returns the gesture.

Then he drives fifteen hours straight to Greenwich. He calls Hunter when he's about five minutes away.

 

“Hey,” he says as Hunter opens the door. The bigger man glances down at him, eyebrows drawn together. Shawn's exhausted and he can't stand the thought of Hunter still being mad at him. He sighs, opens his mouth to utter an apology, but then he's in Hunter's arms. They hug tightly. Bit too tight for Shawn's aching back.

“Easy tiger,” he murmurs into the crook of Hunter's neck.

“Sorry.”

“You got your things?”

“Yeah.”

“A'right, Hun'ner. Let's go.”

 

When they reach the Impala Shawn throws something to Hunter. Hunter catches and stares at it in irritation.

“You think I'm driving after fifteen hours? I might be mad but not that mad.”

Hunter stares at the keys then back at Shawn.

“In three years you never allowed me to …”

“Yeah, yeah. Now get in. I still get to pick the music. That is, after I slept.”

Shawn pulls out a ripped page of a newspaper from the glove locker.

“Next case's probably some vampire bullshit,” he says and yawns while giving him the paper, “here, sure you can find the place.”

 

He wakes to pale sunlight. He blinks, then sits up. His neck is aching, he should be used to that by now. He opens the glove locker and takes some of the pain killers that are stored there, swallows them dry.

“Hey Hunt, turn on the music.”

Hunter pushes play and the last tape continues. Hunter starts grinning as Motör Head's The Game booms out of the speakers.

“That's my favourite song.”

“Yeah, I noticed, jerk.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Hunter says and Shawn grins now, too.

 

 

A day later, they are still on the highway, travelling west, when Shawn's phone rings.

“Yeah?”

“Shawn, it's me. Something killed one of my … brothers. Think it's after me next.” Bret sounds calm in contrast to what his words mean.

“Gimme me your coordinates, Bret.”

So that's it. Change of plan.

 

“Who was this exactly?” Hunter asks.

“His name is Bret Hart. Or rather that's what he calls himself. He's a hunter, too. Kind of. But actually he's an angel.”

“An angel?” Hunter laughs. Then stops as he notices that Shawn is serious. “What the fuck, Shawn? I mean I'm OK with vampires and shape-shifters and ghosts — but angels? Honestly?”

“Yeah. Didn't believe him, either. But Hunter, he's the real deal. Saw his fuckin' wings.”

Hunter glares at him with an open mouth.

“Eyes on the road, idiot! D'you wanna kill us both?” Shawn snarls.

Hunter focuses back on the road, but he frowns and Shawn can imagine what's happening in his head. Because it had happened in his, too. Angels? Does that mean there is a god, too? And a devil? And demons?

“As far as I know there are demons around, too. Glad I never met one. But y'know Bret isn't much of a talker. Sounds familiar to you, Hunt?” Shawn pulls out a bottle of water and a straw from under his seat, opens the bottle and lets the straw slump in.

“So he's all halo and glory and stuff?”

“God, no. You'd feel that somethin' 's off about him, though you could never tell what. But well. Said he hadn't been in heaven since '75.” He smirks around his straw and adds: “1575.”

 

 

It's after midnight when they arrive at the motel at which Bret is staying.

“Is it just me or do the walls glow?” Hunter asks as they walk to the building.

“Probably some spells to keep that thing away.”

They enter the lounge that reminds him more of a bar and in fact there are people having drinks. Shawn looks for the darkest corner and he finds Bret in a heartbeat. They walk over and sit down.

“Hey,” Shawn says. Bret raises an eyebrow at Hunter, then he nods at Shawn.

“Hi,” Hunter says a bit awkwardly, “I'm Hunter.”

Bret's eyebrow raises higher and he purses his lips. “You're a hunter and your name is … Hunter?”

“Don't be mean to him, Bret,” Shawn grins, because he knows Hunter is close to a “Fuck you”.

 

They sit in Bret's room and Shawn nibs at a glass of J.D.

“I found him by accident,” Bret says and takes the glass from Shawn's hand. He swallows some of the amber fluid and gives the glass back. Their fingers touch.

“I went down the street to this motel here and there he was. Arms and legs twisted. Blood everywhere. His wings burned black into the street.”

“And how do you know it's after you now?”

“It's this presence I feel. Haven't got that much left from Upstairs but I don't miss something as strong as that.”

“Well, we'll figure something out tomorrow.”

Bret nods.

 

It's quiet in their room. Shawn is plundering the mini bar and Hunter laid down already. He sure is tired, but something is wrong. He can tell from Hunter not asking him more, from Hunter just doing nothing but going to sleep.

 

The next day all they do is research. For something that could kill angels or at least beings of higher power. Shawn laughs out loud when he finally finds a local legend.

“Look at this, guys,” Shawn exclaims, “A local legend has it like this: 'There was once a man, his name was Will Calaway. He was working in the business of his father. In his free time he helped the church people, digging graves. Never complained, did everything without a charge.

There was a girl that visited the grave of her mother and he watched her every time she stepped into the graveyard. One day, finally he talked to her. Will was of a shy nature, but the girl liked him. So every time she went to visit her mother's grave, they met and fell a bit more in love. But the father of the girl was a rich man who wanted another rich man for his daughter. Not a gravedigger.

So he made a plan with the priest whom he paid good money. They made a trap.

 

“One day the house of the Calaway's set fire. Inside was Will's younger brother and his mother. They could rescue his brother, but not his mother. And his brother bore a terrible secret. He had seen the arsonist. It had been Will. And he truly believed in that. It wasn't the truth, though.

Will was convicted for murder and shot. Betrayed and mourning his own loss he cried out to the priest. That moment, looking into his eyes he realised. He knew. And before the bulled tore his brain out of his skull he swore to the priest he would come back. Rise from the dead. And kill him and whoever was associated with the church.

Every since that the Undertaker rose from his grave every 50 years to kill all that way holy.'

There have been several accidental deaths or uncommon deaths every 50 years. I guess that's our guy.”

 

Bret smiles at him. He seems somewhat relieved.

“Why are you in such a good mood?” Shawn asks.

“Because it means this has nothing to do with heaven or hell.”

“He still killed an angel.”

“Yeah, that's troublesome. But we know what we're dealing with.”

Shawn chuckles at that and runs a hand trough his hair.

“We'll gonna get that son of a bitch.”

“I'm sure we will,” Bret says and looks at Shawn.

Hunter is silent, watching them. He's still in a foul mood it seems and he doesn't know why.

“I'm gonna get us some food from downstairs,” Shawn proclaims and the next second he's out of the door.

 

Hunter stares that that man. Angel. Whatever. He looks nothing like grace and glory to him. All he sees is an asshole in a leather jacket.

“You got a problem?” Bret asks him nonchalantly.

“Think you could be bit more grateful that we drive through half of the fucking country to help you out,” he growls. The right corner of Bret's mouth moves up.

“Don't wanna say anything to that?” This man not even bothering to answer him makes him damn angry.

“No,” dares the fucker to say. Hunter is in front of him the next second. He's nearly four inches taller than that asshole and Bret still manages to look down on him. Or so it feels.

“You think you can take me on? Just because you took a bit too many steroids?” Bret snorts derisively. Hunter is close to loosing control.

And suddenly he just blurts it out. “Did you fuck?”

Bret cocks an eyebrow. “I think that's none of your business.”

 

Shawn has a bit of a trouble opening the door. He's got three burgers in two hands. But finally he manages. Hunter jerks around. He stands close to Bret and there's anger in his face. Bret is smirking triumphantly.

“What the hell happened here?” Shawn asks.

“Nothing,” Hunter snaps.

“Okay … whatever. I got us some burgers.” He places them on the table and starts unwrapping his. Bret walks over to him and takes his burger.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Welcome,” Shawn smiles around another big bite.

Hunter finally joins them and eats his burger, too.

 

“Guess we gotta find Taker's bones then,” Shawn says and licks his fingers after the last bit of burger.

“Yeah. I checked. There are no records that he was buried on one of the local graveyards, though.”

“Well that makes things easier,” Shawn sighs, “we'll have to ask around. Someone will know something about something. Hunter, you go alone. I'm gonna stay and protect our angel baby.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bret says.

“You know how it works, Bret. Dinner first.”

 

At some point Hunter announces that he is tired and goes to bed.

“I don't know what's wrong with him,” Shawn says.

Bret snorts. “I do.”

“What is it?”

“C'mon Shawn. It's obvious. He's jealous.”

“What? Why?”

“He thinks we fucked.”

“Well we did, Bret.”

“Well seems he doesn't like it.” Bret shrugs.

Shawn shakes his head in irritation.

“That stupid boy has fallen hard for you, Michaels.”

“Watch your fuckin' mouth,” he says and stands up.

“Anyone ever told you you got an awful personality?”

“Yeah a few. Think I lost count on that one, though,” Shawn replies.

“Get the fuck out.”

Shawn smirks at him and then walks out of the door.

 

Hunter is vast asleep when he enters their room.

 

 

 

They are journalists now. Writing a story about local legends, starting here with the Undertaker.

Hunter went off alone as Shawn had said. It's tiresome work because everybody has heard of the Undertaker, that poor lost soul, but nobody, really nobody is able to tell them more than they already know.

The next day isn't much better.

It's nearly midnight as they end up in a bar. Nobody talks. They are all tired, Hunter's mood doesn't seem to get up anymore and Bret seems annoyed all the time.

Shawn tips his tongue into the whiskey and then swallows all of it in one go. Smacks the glass back on the table.

“You two can be moody bitches if you want, but I'm gonna have some fun tonight,” he promises and stands up, leaves them to themselves without glancing back.

 

At the bar he orders another whiskey and a shot of wodka for the brunette next to him. He smiles at her an she smiles back. Takes the shot.

“So what are you doin' in this shit-hole of village?” she asks.

“Journalist. But tonight I'm just here for some fun” He smirks at her.

“I see,” she says.

 

Fifteen minutes, some awful small talk and two more whiskeys later they are kissing and she is warm and soft against him. Curvy in all the right places and she smells of an expensive perfume. He holds her and her nails scratch lightly over his back. Just as they end the kiss he can see Bret approaching. He's all smooth lines, the leather jacket hanging loosely over one shoulder. He's not smiling but he's got a dirty look in his eyes.

“Mind if I join?” he asks with a low, dark voice.

The brunette whose name he still doesn't know lightly shakes her head. “Not at all.”

 

He's kissing her again. Bret is behind her, arms around her and hands gliding lower. She's a curvy line between their bodies. One of her arms lies around his neck, the other one is set on Bret's thigh.

He presses closer, sliding between her legs and as he does so Bret's fingers glide underneath the waistband of her jeans. She gasps as he touches her, but Bret is looking into his eyes. Smirking. It's a challenge and an invitation at the same time. And Shawn really wants to kiss that arrogant smirk off his lips. Bret's moving his fingers and she moans lowly into Shawn's ear. One hand he puts on her ass that is tightly pressed against Bret's groin. So he's touching them both when moving his hand.

Bret licks a wet line over her cheek and glances at him again. Hell, he looks gorgeous and like the devil himself. So he leans over and puts his mouth over his.

Bret's tongue pushing past his lips. It's a short, heated kiss.

 

Suddenly everything turns dark.

“What the fuck,” Shawn says.

The sound of a church bell. And again. And again and again. It's a melody.

Then the doors fly open. Something enters. Someone.

A groan of pain echoes through the room.

“Bret!” Shawn shouts. Heavy, fast steps. The doors fall shut.

Shawn is outside a few seconds later. In the flickering street-lights stands a man. He's tall and terrible. A long black coat and a black hat that obscures his eyes, casting a shadow over his face. He's got a hand around Bret's throat, holding him up in the air.

 

“The blade! The blade!” Bret chokes.

Shawn understands. He's running. The next moment he kicks that blade out of the Undertaker's hand. The ghost is surprised for a heartbeat. Then he throws Bret to the ground, turning to Shawn. Bret gasps loudly.

A shattering sound tears the air apart. It's Hunter's gun. The silver going right through the Undertaker. He vanishes into thin air.

“Fucking fuck,” Hunter swears as he runs to them. Shawn helps Bret up.

“Take it!” Bret orders and Hunter picks up the blade.

 

Ten minutes later they've made it into the hotel.

They are in Hunter's and his room. Bret is coughing and rubbing his throat.

“Guess that was the Undertaker then,” murmurs Hunter.

“Thanks Hunter for pointing out,” Bret snaps.

“Well, see who's gonna save your life next time,” Hunter says darkly.

Bret snorts.

“Guys. Shut it,” Shawn commands, then to Bret, “You stay here with us tonight.”

 

The window is open and Shawn is smoking. Breathing in. Breathing out. It calms him a bit.

Bret is lying on the mattress they brought in, arms crossed under his head.

“That blade,” Shawn says suddenly and blows the smoke out of the window.

“It's an angel blade,” Bret replies. Then a after a heart beat: “It can kill nearly everything alive or dead. Guess he took that from my 'brother' and killed him with it.”

“You got a blade like that, too?”

“Yeah. Just don't like using it. No fun without a real fight.”

Shawn chuckles at that, he throws the cigarette outside and closes the window.

Then Hunter comes in with their dinner and they eat in silence.

 

Shawn takes the first turn.

He watches how they sleep. Bret unmoving as if set in stone and Hunter rolling from one side to the other. Shawn smiles and sits down next to Hunter, strokes over his head.

“Shhh, Hunt, everything's gonna be a'right,” he murmurs into his ear. He bows down to kiss his forehead. Oh, how he wishes to lie down next to him now. Just feel his warmth. Being save with him. Yeah, that's what Hunter always makes him feel like. Even if it's not true he always feels save and sound.

 

 

“No drinks tonight,” Shawn promises as they start out for the new day. Still journalists. Still a shitty work to do. Hunter is in the local library, doing research. Shawn wonders how long he will survive in there.

OK, maybe going around asking people isn't that bad.

Though doing this with Bret and being with him gets annoying. They bitch at each other every five minutes now and he hopes with all his heart that either Hunter gets some useful information or the Undertaker just stabs Bret in the back. At the moment the last one is the more appealing one though.

 

When his phone rings and it's Hunter nearly screaming “I fucking found that shit place where his damn fucking grave is!” he thinks he's already delirious. Well, he's not.

He just jumps up from were he's sitting on that old woman's couch and walks out the door.

“Fuck yes! God, Hunter, I love you! You've no idea how fucking exhausting that angel-brat gets!” he utters into the phone.

“Where are you at the moment, Shawn? Let's meet up and—”

The line breaks.

He just closed the door behind him and breaths in the fresh air as the street-light starts to flicker.

Oh fuck.

 

He's his machete in hand a second later. Doesn't help him much when he flies through the air.

Hitting his head. Lights out. Black.

 

How long he's been unconscious he doesn't know. Blood is trickling from his head, running in his eyes and blurring his view.

“Fuck,” he groans and gets up. Street lamps still flicker. He has to be still here.

Next moment there's a scream. Painful. Bret. Shit!

He's on his feet, stumbling around the next corner. There they are. Nobody seems to care that someone's screaming in agony. All the lights in the houses are out.

Bret crawling away, then jumping to his feet.

“You think you're a though motherfucker?” He can hear Bret growl. Then the Undertaker's running. Bret steps aside, is behind the Undertaker and jumps at his back. Pulling his knees up. Letting himself fall back. Tearing the Undertaker with him.

They're both down.

 

Shawn is next to Bret. Pulls him up. Then he hits his machete as hard as he can into the Undertaker's head.

Midway the deadman clutches at it. The steel gives in. Breaks.

He's on his feet again and staring down at them. Bret stares back, then he moves forward. Smooth, elegant, but as fast as a cobra biting. The angel blade cuts into the Undertaker's skin. If he pushes deep enough it will kill. But then Bret's torn away.

Flying high in the air and landing with a crack of bones. Gasps for breath. Blood and a blurring out vision. Shawn can see it in his eyes. And ducks away just before a hard fist crushes into the ground where he stood.

“'The hell?” There's another giant in front of him. A mask hiding his face. Curly dirty hair and a torn coat. While he swears both of them come closer. He's wiped off by a blow. Not sure from whom. Should've prepared better. Then his vision turns black again.

 

When he opens his eyes the Undertaker is towering over Bret. But Bret just spits into his face.

In the twilight his blood is deep brown.

 

Shawn wants to get up, but his ankle seems to be on fire when he tries to. He clenches his teeth together, he sucks it up and somehow manages to stand. He has fought worse. He ain't not giving in now.

“To your right!” Bret cries with a rough voice. Shawn understands. But before he can pick up the angel blade, that Bret must've lost there, the other giant has him at his throat. Dragging him away. His mask hides any sign of emotions but he can see two piercing eyes. One of them is blood red.

With his last power of will he struggles free, slips out of his hold. Now he's running despite the burning pain in his ankle. There's the blade. He picks it up. Turns on his back and barely sees how the masked one wants to slam himself on him.

“Goodbye motherfucker,” Shawn shouts when he falls exactly into the angel blade. It burns into the giant. Like magma and it burns him from the inside out.

 

It makes the Undertaker turn back. Turn to him. Shit. He clutches the blade in his hands waiting for the deadman to tear him apart. The Undertaker didn't speak before but when he does now his voice is deep and soft and broken.

“Brother,” he says.

 

Then his brows come closer together, he presses his lips into a thin white line. He tosses his hat off and slowly walks towards him. Suddenly stops. Arches back and hisses. Bret is behind him, Shawn's machete inches deep into the deadman's flesh.

Then he hooks his leg into the Undertaker's and with a punch to the shoulder brings him down.

Pulls out Shawn's machete just to push it right into the Undertaker's skull. Bone cracks.

 

Shawn stumbles up, angel blade in hand, ready to finish the bastard. The Undertaker sits up. As if nothing had happened. There's no blood when he pulls out the machete. But there is blood when he thrusts it into Bret's side. A strangles hiss. Bret goes down on his knees.

Then the Undertaker turns to him again.

 

“You don't touch him,” a voice says. Hunter steps into the dim light. In his hand the other angel blade.

“What took you so long?” Shawn laughs brokenly.

“Had to figure out where the fuck you are, bitch.”

“Shut up, jerk.”

 

Then he's running. Steps left as the Undertaker stretches his arm out. Turns around.

Something hits the Undertaker at the head. It's Bret. Sticking the machete into the Undertaker's skull one more time.

The next moment Hunter is behind the deadman. “Rest in piece, son of a bitch!”

He burns out. Just as his brother.

 

“And I spent all that time in the library for nothing,” Hunter sighs as he turns to Shawn. Shawn laughs.

“Yeah, it seems.”

Hunter pulls him up, helps him walking. It fucking hurts.

“Look for the angel brat,” he murmurs.

“Don't overdo yourself,” Bret snaps, holding his side and barely managing to hide his pain. But standing and walking.

 

 

They stay in the village a few days longer to recover. Hunter is a bit like their maid and Shawn is sure that by now he regrets saving them.

“Give me this Helmsley, give me that. If I hear another word I'm gonna strangle you both.”

“Shut your mouth boy toy and move your ass to that mini bar,” Bret commands.

“C'mon Hunt, don't be a prick,” Shawn throws in. “Do what daddy wants you to.” He's on more painkillers than he actually needs. A lot more. He feels good.

“Go fuck yourselves,” Hunter replies but does go to the mini bar.

“Gimme the coke,” Bret slurs. Hunter throws the see-through plastic bag at him.

 

 

“God I needed that,” Bret moans, sniffs and lies back down.

“Your blasphemy is always so sexy,” Shawn says and moves to get a better look of Bret.

“OK. That's enough. I'm outta here.” Hunter sounds truly angry, but Shawn doesn't care.

“Yeah, just go and fuck off,” he says and that's what Hunter does. Slams the door shut behind him.

 

Shawn giggles. Bret laughs lowly. Then he's next to Bret and puts some of the white powder on his chest. Sniffs it with the dollar bill Bret hands him. He goes down and kisses the leftovers from Bret's skin and keeps on doing it after everything's gone. Licks over his nipples and lightly bites into the right one. Bret moans, looks down on him with slightly parted lips. Pupils blown. Irides all black now.

Shawn moves further down. Lips and tongue tracing sweaty skin. Biting, marking just leaving out the skin covered by gauze. He's pulling Bret's trousers down, biting his left hipbone as he does so. Bret's hand rests gently on his head, guiding him down.

 

He's sucking him off, slowly, teasing him with his tongue and teeth. And when Bret comes he swallows all of it. Moves up again, kissing him while Bret's hand slides into his trousers. Bret takes his time until Shawn is begging him. He lets him beg some more.

But when he finally shows mercy, when he finally speeds up his strokes and they are kissing his orgasm sends him into blissful oblivion for a few precious seconds.

 

He feels dirty and miserable. Bret is sleeping there beside him. But he just can't. Insomnia has him in her claws and he's coming down the heigh.

“Fuck,” he whispers into the dark. He feels like vomiting. Fucking painkillers. Fucking coke. Fucking Bret.

He's up on his feet, stumbling out of the door and into the room that was originally Bret's. It's not locked but that doesn't concern him right now. He's just happy he makes it to the bathroom before everything spills out.

 

He coughs and spits into the toilet bowl one last time. Tastes like he has something dead in his mouth. Something that has rotten in a dark cellar for a decade.

He washes his mouth out. Takes the fucking soap because there's no toothpaste. It's burning, but whatever.

 

Suddenly the light turns on in the bedroom.

“Shawn?” A muffled voice says. He turns around.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah, moron. Next time knock when you want to spill your guts out.”

“Fuck what are you doing here?”

“Until a few minutes ago I tried sleeping. You know, people do that at night.”

“You didn't leave.” It's not a question.

“Shawn. Get up.” Shawn does. Guilt boiling in his stomach.

Hunter's arms around him. Warmth. Peace at last.

“C'mon man, don't collapse right here.”

 

“How's your ankle?”

“Still hurting. But yeah painkillers helped.”

They sit on Hunter's bed, Hunter next to him.

“Would you mind if I take a shower?”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Don't feel so well.” He runs a hand through his hair and manages a grin.

“All right. I'll be here if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

 

The water doesn't get hot but it has to do. He washes his hair, leaning at the wall. The pain in his ankle is slowly coming back. The sudden need to take more painkillers makes him feel sick again.

But there is Hunter, waiting for him when he gets out. Wrapping his arms around him and Shawn closes his eyes. Breathes in.

“Can I stay?” he whispers into the crook of Hunter's neck.

 

They lie in bed, forehead against forehead. He can feel Hunter's breath on his lips and his hand on his cheek.

The rhythm of Hunter breathing becomes his, too. He finally falls asleep.

 

 

The coffee is horrible. Even after he put four spoons full of sugar inside and a lot of milk, too.

Shawn drinks it anyway. They sit in the diner downstairs, bags packed beside them.

It's time to move on.

Bret is silent, drinks his coffee black.

“Wanna go out for a smoke?” Shawn asks. Bret shrugs but stands up. Takes his bag with him.

They're outside and the wind is colder than the days before.

With trembling fingers he lights first his then Bret's cigarette. Their hands touch.

They're not talking, just smoking. Leaning against the wall, their shoulders brushing together. Shawn finishes his cigarette first and picks Bret's from his fingers. The angel's lips curve into a smile.

“Shawn.”

“Bret.”

“'til next time.”

Shawn smiles at him. “Until next time.”

Bret nods at him and then just starts walking. Down the street. He doesn't look back. Shawn lights another cigarette and stays till it's finished and he can't see Bret anymore.

 

 

He sits back next to Hunter who puts fork and knife back on the now empty plate.

“Shall we?” Shawn asks.

“Yeah,” Hunter says.

 

When Hunter wants to open the door to the Impala Shawn pulls him back at the collar of his shirt. The next second he presses his lips against Hunter's. Hunter pushes him back and Shawn laughs.

When they're inside, Hunter asks: “What was that for?”

“Staying,” Shawn says.

 

 

He takes him back to Greenwich.

They don't talk much on the way. At some point Shawn pulls over. It's late and they're both tired. So they climb on the back-seats of the Impala. He's in Hunter's arms and they are warm under the cover Shawn always keeps in the Impala.

They fall asleep. When they wake up their backs ache and their necks hurt. Shawn swears loudly, but he's happy. He truly is.

 

 

He's at the doorstep and Hunter enters his small flat. He nods and Shawn comes in, pulls his shoes off and walks into the kitchen. It's small and there are plates with leftover food that looks like it either dried or burned into the plates. Empty bottles on the floor. He opens the windows to release a bit of the smell.

“Hey,” Hunter says.

Shawn turns around and smiles.

“Why don't you stay for a while, Shawn?”

I can't, he wants to say. That's not how I roll. There are monsters to hunt down and kill.

But instead he says: “Yeah. Why not.”

 

He's never slept over at Hunter's before.

He's not sure whether sleeping at the couch would be the appropriate thing to do. But then they're sitting on the couch, watching telly and some time after midnight Hunter says yawning: “Let's go to bed.”

They are under the covers and suddenly he isn't tired anymore. Suddenly his heart beats fast.

His fingers are tracing invisible lines on Hunter's back. They're close again.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins as he leans in and brushes their lips together.

This time Hunter doesn't push him away. This time he just gives in.

It's a soft and innocent kiss. And Shawn doesn't want to ruin it. Before it can get anymore than just lips pressed against lips he pulls away. He can't see Hunter in the dark. Wishes he could.

“Shawn,” Hunter whispers.

“Yeah?” Shawn replies quietly. His fingers tremble as he puts them on Hunter's back again.

“If this is a game for you, tell me now.” He can hear that this is hard for Hunter to say. Can feel him trembling.

They're at the point where he must push him away. To save him from this person he is. Drinking and taking too many painkillers and being fucked up for days on end. And when he's not he's killing and hunting and killing. But then again, Hunter knows all that about him already.

And he is selfish and he needs Hunter and he wants to be close to him.

“This is not a game,” he says. And he's never said anything truer in his life.

 

Then Hunter's warm body is on top of his. Suddenly it's hard to breath. The touch of their skin. Hunter so familiar and so strange. His fingers feel like they're burning when he slides them under Hunter's shirt. Hunter's chest falling and rising so fast.

And it feels like falling. Into the dark, into the deep. But he is safe and sound.

In a breathless whisper Hunter confesses he has never done that before. He kisses him. Tells him it's okay. It's all right.

He wants to see his face, but this is all about feeling. This is all about trust. And he trusts him.

He holds on to him, his arms around Hunter's neck. And Hunter's fingers are gentle and careful and he's afraid and he's beautiful. And Shawn is afraid, too.

 

 

The next morning is grey and cold. Shawn awakes to an empty bed. For a moment he believes himself in a motel, somewhere on the road and his one night stand just left him. Except there's the smell of coffee in the air. Shawn sits up. He's still naked. He feels bruised. In a good way.

He goes into the kitchen and sees Hunter who's doing the dishes.

“G'morning Hunt,” he says to the younger man. That younger man nearly lets a plate shatter on the floor.

“Hell, Shawn,” he mutters and turns to him.

“Don't mind me, Hunt,” he says and comes closer, glancing at the kitchen table on which two cups of coffee stand.

“Suit yourself,” Hunter says and Shawn sits down and nibs at the coffee. Raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“It's not half as bad as I thought.”

“That's because you're used to shitty motel coffee.”

“Got a point there,” Shawn says.

 

They don't eat, they just have coffee. Shawn drinks too fast and burns his tongue.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath. Hunter laughs.

“Fuck you too, Hunter.”

Suddenly silence hangs in the room. They look at each other. Hunter blushes. Good god, he _blushes_.

“Wanna … go to bed again?” Shawn offers breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Hunter says and is already standing.

 

The door falls shut behind them and Shawn presses Hunter against the wood. Hunter's pupils widen. It's the first time he ever notices that while it's happening. Then he's down on his knees. Hunter gasps as he palms him through the fabric. Then he slowly, teasingly pulls his trousers down. A grin spreads over Shawn's face as he sees that Hunter's already half hard. He grips him tightly around the shaft, can feel the blood streaming underneath his fingers.

“Oh god,” Hunter moans as Shawn puts his lips around him, mouths at the head. Licks and sucks and then starts bobbing his head.

A hand in his hair and Hunter starting to thrust into his mouth. With his free hand Shawn holds him still.

Low moans fill the room. He can feel when Hunter is close. That's when he lets his cock slip out of his mouth and smoothly moves up again.

 

“You god damn bastard,” Hunter says. Shawn's grin is all teeth.

“Wouldn't want to tire you out, Hunt.”

“Yeah I bet.”

Then they are on the bed, clothes lost somewhere on the floor. He twists his fingers in Hunter's long white blond hair, hell it became even longer than his own, and pulls him closer. Mouths meet in a clash of teeth. This time it's a messy kiss. A fight for dominance Shawn gladly looses in the end, opens his mouth for Hunter's tongue. He's on top of Hunter but in a fluid motion Hunter has him on his back. A second later they're grinding against each other. Trembling fingers close around Shawn's erection, starting to stroke him. Pleasure floods through his veins.

The oil is still on the bed-table. Shawn reaches for it.

 

A loud moan escapes his lips as Hunter thrusts into him again.

“All the neighbours will hear you, Shawn,” Hunter whispers smirking against his neck and thrusts in deeper yet.

“I damn hope so,” Shawn says. Another deep thrust. “Ah, yeah like that …” Shawn moans.

He's got his legs around Hunter's hips and arches his back to give him more room. When Hunter hits that certain spot he sees stars.

“Do that again!” he commands and throws his head back on the pillow. Strands of dirty blond blur his vision. Hunter's face is close. He looks beautiful with lust and care in his eyes.

“Touch me,” he whispers and Hunter lets his right hand glide down his body. Grips him and starts stroking him in their rhythm that gets faster and harder.

 

He's writhing underneath him, head thrown back, but arms around Hunter's neck. Hunter's hot breath washing over his face, his lips brushing his cheek.

“God, you are beautiful.” Hunter says it like a confession.

There are Hunter's lips on his skin, sucking at his neck, biting. He twists a hand in his platinum hair

and with another deep thrust of Hunter he's coming. Super novas explode before his eyes. For a few seconds he's higher than painkillers or cocaine ever let him fly. But when he's coming down it's not sickness, it's satisfaction.

A few more uncontrolled thrusts, then Hunter comes, too. Sinks down on him. Sighs.

“That was better than breakfast,” Shawn says.

“Definitely,” Hunter says and grins.

 

 

The days pass by and before Shawn notices a week is over. It's a time in blissful oblivion. When Hunter is in the Garage, repairing cars and he is there with him. Stays and goes as he pleases. Strolling around the village and stealing half-frozen apples from the neighbour's trees. God damn whether ain't right for the season. And sometime Shawn steals a kiss from Hunter and then Hunter blushes and Shawn laughs at him. He is eager to please Hunter. At night and at day and so he does something he hasn't done in a long time. He cooks for him.

He's not sure Hunter will survive dinner, but as they say, it's the gesture that matters. Grinning he mixes a little more wine into the sauce as the phone rings. It rings two times more before Hunter picks it up.

Shawn sings along to Guns 'n Roses' _Perfect Crime_ and one or two minutes pass. Sauce should be ready in a few seconds.

Hunter comes in. He's pale. His lips pressed together in a tight line.

“What's happened?” he asks, sorrow hitting him like a crashing car.

“It's my mom. She died an hour ago.”

 

Half an hour later they are in the hospital. When they are back the sauce is burnt and dried.

Hunter didn't cry. Didn't say anything more than needed.

Shawn holds him through the night. He's tired but he doesn't sleep because Hunter doesn't either. They don't talk. He rubs Hunter's back. Kisses his forehead, his temple and his cheekbone right under his eye. Then he just lies still. Holds him. Just before dawn he falls asleep.

When he wakes he finds Hunter doing phone calls to arrange the funeral.

Shawn tries to help him as best as he can but he feels helpless and useless all the same. Because he doesn't know how that is. Having a mother. Knowing her. And _then_ loosing her.

Long after midnight Hunter pushes him to the floor. They keep their clothes on and it's rough this time. It's bitter and silent, but he gives whatever he has to offer.

 

After the funeral things get better. Or maybe Hunter just learns how to hide. He's not sure. He's never seen him like this. Dark circles under his eyes, pale skin and his movements shaking, trembling. Shawn's not sure how many plates are still left in the cupboard. And all he can do is pick up the broken pieces and throw them into the trash.

All this is like some comatose-close dream. Too much whiskey and painkillers and he's dreaming on dirty motel sheets. Except he's not.

 

So when Hunter packs his bag and tells him he wants to put the house up for rent he his both worried and released. The road. It's like it's calling for him, screaming at him. There are monsters to hunt, murderers to kill. But when he looks into Hunter's whiskey coloured eyes he has to swallow hard.

“Are you sure 'bout that Hunter?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.” Hunter doesn't even blink while abandoning his home.

“You're always welcome y'know. But I'm not an easy person to live with. This is different than a single week with me on the road. I'm messy, Hunter. And most certainly not healthy.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

And suddenly he can't breath. Because what is he gonna do if Hunter thinks twice. When he just leaves him here and now.

“Willing to take that risk. You coming now?”

 

And of course he comes.

 

 

To be back on the road feels good. Feels free. To go wherever he wants whenever he wants.

Hunter beside him is still silent but maybe the road is exactly what he needs. He let go.

Somehow it feels like reality has shifted into the right place again. Without them knowing it was out of place. Hunter here beside him. Not only for a certain amount of time.

Shawn knows he's flying high, he knows he's gonna crash back to earth. He just doesn't care.

 

A week passes. They behead a vampire and burn two ghosts and it takes their minds off from anything else. They are bruised and bloody in the motel room and Shawn laughs and so does Hunter. They're alive, they're damn alive.

Happiness is burning in his stomach and he knows he's lucky. Full of adrenaline that's still rushing through his veins he kisses Hunter.

 

They are driving and they're driving without an end and it's beautiful and he's never known that feeling of not fearing to be alone anymore.

 

 

It's all a bit too much of a fairytale.

They fight the morning before the hunt. Shawn can't even recall what is was about, but when they come back and his back is aching like someone's pulling out his spine he swallows as many pain killers as he can without killing himself. Damn that is exactly what he needed. And good god how he wishes to have some of Bret's coke, too.

He's lying there on his stomach, head resting on his arms.

Hunter is still in a foul mood when he comes in, his shirt stained with blood. Both of his own and that of their killers. And Shawn tells him to go and fuck off.

It's nearly funny how they start fighting again. Ending with him banging the door behind him and storming off into the night.

The next morning he doesn't know where he is. But he knows two things: next to him lies a redhead woman and it's certainly not morning anymore. He's still high. Takes him an hour to get back to their motel. Walking past a parked car he catches a glimpse of how he looks like. Fucked up is all he can think. At least his back doesn't hurt that much at the moment.

 

Will Hunter still be there? He really doesn't know and he really couldn't blame him. His heart starts beating faster and faster. When he's finally at their floor his heart feels like it wanted to pulverise his ribcage.

But when he knocks, Hunter opens.

“I did tell you,” is all Shawn says when entering the room. Hunter says nothing.

 

But this is 100 percent him. Shawn Michaels. Misbehaving whenever the fuck he wants. Not that anybody really cared before. Sometimes he got beaten up for it in a bar or a club. But the bruises later were never as hard to bear as Hunter's silence is. But he stays.

So they're not talking and they're not touching. As if it could burn them. They move carefully and it's fucking disgraceful.

 

The silence lasts the whole day. At night Shawn crawls into Hunter's bed and Hunter sighs and opens his arms. The apology he repeat all day in his head is on his tongue, but he swallows it down as Hunter kisses him tenderly. He's forgiven and he knows he doesn't deserve it.

 

They hunt. They kill. And he's bruised and broken and so is Hunter. But somehow they pick each other's pieces up and put themselves back together.

 

 

It's still not a fairytale and there are these days and nights when he's all fucked up. And the days afterwards when they don't talk and Shawn wonders how long Hunter will take all this. That's when he promises to quit the drugs and alcohol. When he flushes his pills down the toilet. And they touch again and they talk again. And a two weeks later he's on painkillers again.

Hunter forgives him every time. Whether he's totally wasted or doesn't come back at night. Shawn can see the hurt and anger in his eyes. The power it takes not to just throw him out or walk out that door and never come back. Then Shawn cries and begs. Please Hunter please, please don't leave me. Or he shouts at him. Go and fuck off, just leave me you son of a bitch. Hunter always stays.

 

 

He sees so much blood and misery. Who can blame him for drinking too much alcohol? Who can blame him for drowning the memories of torn dead bodies in a cold glass of whiskey? Or maybe two. Or five.

He's drunk and his head is spinning and he really likes that feeling of becoming once with the music and the flickering lights. It's late already, but he doesn't want to go. Hunter is here somewhere, too.

And suddenly someone is holding up his glass, cheering and as he lets their glasses meet a bit of the whiskey splashes on his hand. He laughs and looks up from his hand into ebony eyes.

“No way. Fate's a bitch,” he says and grins.

“True. Otherwise I wouldn't have to face you every now and then,” Bret says.

“Don't try to be funny, Bret. Doesn't suit you.”

The angel only shows him his middle finger. He's wearing his bulky leather jacket with the big shoulder pats again but this time nothing underneath. His bronze skin shimmers and a drop of sweat rolls down his chest.

“Uh, you really out to kill the ladies tonight, huh?” Shawn says and puts his index finger on Bret's collar bone, tracing a line down over tight muscles to his hips.

“Counting yourself in?” Bret says, his lips twitching.

“You would like that wouldn't you?”

Bret only gives him a half hidden smirk.

 

He's leaning at the bar and watching Bret dancing with a hot brunette. The angel has his sunglasses on now and Shawn laughs quietly. Though he must admit it does look good. With the flickering light, colours changing. Illuminating the straight lines of his shoulders, the triangle shape of his upper body in blue, red, violet. And his body moving smoothly to the beat of the music.

Shawn turns back to his drink, gulps it down in one go. Where the fuck is Hunter?

The guy next to him smiles at him. Shawn smiles back and shows him his middle finger. Not interested. The guy's eyes narrow and he can read the “Fuck you” from his lips.

His smile widens as Hunter approaches from behind and just shoves the guy away. He shouts something at Hunter but one glance makes him shut up. Shawn can't help himself and laughs.

“You are drunk,” Hunter has to scream so he can hear him. Then he's on his toes, arms around Hunter neck.

“Dance with me, Hunt,” he says and brushes Hunter's earlobe while doing so.

 

Before Hunter can even protest, he takes his hand and guides him the few steps to the dance floor.

From the way Hunter moves he can tell he doesn't dance and doesn't like to. Well, time to change that. He has his arms around Hunter's neck again, moving his body against him in the rhythm of the song. It's loud and hot and there is little space. Body against body against body. All moving to the beat. Someone's cigarette brushes his arm and he swears loudly. Then he turns around, leaning back at Hunter and going to his knees and then up again. Over his shoulder he can see Hunter blush. He grins.

When he turns his head there is Bret in front of him, still with sunglasses.

“Shawn Michaels and his boy toy Hunter Helmsley,” he says. Shawn's grin widens, he grips Bret's belt and pulls him closer. Behind him Hunter stiffens. He probably wants to punch Bret right in the face. But Shawn knows he won't.

He turns around so he is facing Hunter and has Bret at his back. He's sure he can hear a “Damn faggots”. Well, all three of them have some strength in their bodies so no one really dares to insult them face to face.

 

It's strange with the two of them. He's not sure Hunter will forgive him for this. But at his stage he doesn't care. He just wants both of them.

Somehow they get to Bret's room in some motel. They are kissing and touching. Hunter's tongue on his neck and Bret's hands gliding over his chest. Shawn whispers obscenities into their ears.

Contrary to him Hunter is silent, but he won't have that.

 

The knots are tight when they tie Hunter to the bed. He swears and fights but they are stronger than him. Then Shawn silences him with a deep kiss and eventually Hunter lets go. Bret's hands on his shoulders and when he faces him he's got an open bottle of Jack in his hand. Shawn smirks, twists a hand in Bret's hair and pulls his head back.

“Drink baby, drink,” Shawn murmurs, holds the bottle high up and pours some of its liquid into Bret's open mouth. The whiskey is running down his chin as he tries to gulp it all down. Then Shawn slowly licks the whiskey from his skin. It's burning, burning.

He crawls onto Hunter next.

“Your turn, Hunt.”

 

It takes sometime to get Hunter drunk but when it's done he starts thrusting his hips up. Moving against him. Bret is still behind him, tearing his shirt from his body.

Shawn lowers his mouth to Hunter's skin. Places kisses and little bites until Hunter is moaning. Begs him to open the knots and let him touch him, too. He doesn't. Continues sucking and kissing the violated skin afterwards.

“You like that?” he whispers in a rough voice.

“Yes, god, yes,” is Hunter's breathless reply.

His lips tracing a wet line down Hunter's hipbone. He licks at the skin, sucks and bites. He's gonna be blue all over tomorrow.

Then he has him in his mouth and he swallows and Hunter thrusts his hips up, swearing loudly.

Bret behind him laughs, grabs him through his trousers and starts stroking him in the rhythm he bobs his head. Bret's other hand on his back, gliding lower. Somehow he put lube on his hand because there is a slippery finger entering him. Another. Moving and he starts arching back.

He moves slower on Hunter's cock. Wants this to last.

 

When Bret slips into him his eyeballs roll back under his lids. This is messy and their rhythms get out of control. Until it's just thrusting and moaning and arching back and Bret stroking him and he bobbing his head up faster and Hunter moaning and swearing.

He claws his fingernails into Hunter's hips. A whimper of pain and groan of pleasure. There is little air he gets and his vision turns darker, he can see stars. Then Hunter is coming and he tries to swallow it all. He can't though, because Bret pulls him up on his hands. The white fluid spurting on his face, dripping down his chin. He tries to lick it away. Now his moans can slip out of his mouth, too. So when Bret thrusts deeper, his curls brushing his shoulder as he leans down. He's on him, in him and his breath is washing over Shawn's cheek, lips brushing his skin. He can see Hunter, his eyes closed, chest raising and falling fast, a satisfied smile on his lips.

“Please,” he begs breathlessly, “please Bret.” And Bret changes his angle and hits that certain spot. Shawn moans loudly.

“Again,” he demands. Bret strokes him faster and thrusts in in the same angle time after time after time. He turns his head and they kiss. Teeth clashing, his tongue in Bret's mouth and he sucks on it.

Then Bret hit his spot hard, there are stars in front of Shawn's eyes. He's riding on the wave of his orgasm. Drowns in the pleasures of the aftermath. He's lying half on Hunter. Bret sunk down on him.

“Get off,” he says and Bret rolls down, next to him. They're all exhausted.

Hunter glances at him. He's not sure what he can read in his eyes. Where the rope cut into his flesh Hunter's wrists are red and start turning blue. Guilt clawing at the back of his conscience. He frees him, but Hunter doesn't move.

 

“Fuck, I need a cigarette,” Shawn says. Bret stands up and puts on trousers and his jacket. Then he opens the door to the balcony and nods at Shawn.

The air is fucking cold. Bret lights a cigarette and gives it to Shawn.

“We gotta share,” he says, “'s my last one.”

“Uh-huh,” Shawn makes and inhales deeply. Gives the cigarette to Bret. He does the same.

It's his turn. Before he breathes out, he pulls Bret closer, blows the smoke into his mouth. The next time he sucks the smoke from Bret's lips.

Then the little dot of light is thrown over the balcony. It's still cold and the morning sky is grey and anthracite.

“Guess we should go,” Shawn mumbles.

“Yeah,” Bret says, “you should.”

They look at each other. Shawn nods. They turn to the door and go inside.

“Let's go,” he says. Hunter is already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

 

It would probably be the best if he never saw Bret again. Never said his name again. Maybe Hunter would forgive him then.

This time they talk, but it's worse than the silence. Hunter acts as if the last night never happened. Except that he doesn't look Shawn in the eye and Shawn can sense all the boiling anger inside his best friend and lover.

Maybe it's because he clearly enjoyed some parts of the night. Maybe that's what makes Hunter even more furious. But he never even uttered a word to Shawn to _stop_ to even after they tied him to the bed. So he can't fucking blame him. Can't act as if he was the damn victim. As if he didn't want Shawn to suck him off right then and there.

 

Yeah and then life gets in the way. Or rather death.

They're half way into their next case. There is something that attacks black haired women. Only the ones with no partner and a child at home. And it kills them, makes the girls and boys into orphans. Leaves them with swollen, red rimmed tearful eyes at the funeral of their mothers.

And they have no clue what this thing is. No signs of witchcraft, no ghost that would seek revenge and no other monster they know.

 

They sit in the Impala, engine down, lights out, waiting in front of another woman's house. The last two died because they just didn't know how it happens.

“I'm not comfortable with that,” Hunter utters, frowning.

“Need a hot chocolate and a cookie?”

“Oh, shut up, Shawn. Y'know what I mean.”

Shawn snorts, rolls his eyes. He's taken a few pills before dinner and now he doesn't really care.

“Know what? I'm going. Can't save her from here,” Hunter says, opens the door. Shawn shrugs, then Hunter is outside. Well, _he_ is certainly not going back to that boring woman. No sense of style whatsoever. Horrible skirts she wears.

He watches Hunter approach the house.

 

 

It's dark. A few of the street lamps are out. The lane to her house is framed by oak trees. In the night their wood is black and the wind brushes the leaves together. A shiver runs down Hunter's back. He knocks on the door. He wears a suit and he has his batch at hand, flashes it and a smile as soon as the lady opens the door.

“Hello ma'am,” he says. She's got dark circles under her eyes. Looks tired.

“Agent Lavesque,” her voice is quiet, “Do you need to come in?”

“That'd be good, yes.”

 

He's sitting in her living room, she brings him a cup of tea. He thanks her. Tells her about that murderer that might appear on her doorstep.

“My college is patrolling in the car outside. We'll take care of you.”

“I just don't want my boy to wake up,” she whispers.

Hunter swallows. She reminds him too much of his mother for him not to care. That tired look. The way she moves and talks. All of this is a portrait of exhaustion.

Suddenly the lights flicker. Hunter is on his feet the next second. Speed dial on his phone. Shawn doesn't pick up.

“C'mon!” he shouts and puts an arm around her an with the other one draws a salt circle around them. Good he took it with him. But still. He has his gun and his knife but all of that didn't help them much before.

 

Then it gets cold. Ice crawls up the windows. It's silent. Not a sound.

Her heart pounding hard against his chest. The light flickers again. Out.

“My baby!” she cries and tries to struggle out of his hold. But Hunter's far too strong. He's close to just hit her unconscious when something crawls out of the window.

It's black. Not like the colour. It's more than that, it's like nothingness. It's shape reminds vaguely of a snake with legs. Thin legs with claws. There are only contours. No highs no depths. Just a shape in black.

And it comes closer. The air turns colder still. Hunter's trembling.

He tries the speed dial again. No one picks up. Fuck, Shawn, where are you?

The woman is close to fainting. A split tongue comes out of the thing's mouth, sniffling the air..

OK. Time to act. Aims, triggers, shoots. The silver bullet crashes through the air.

And is simply swallowed by the thing. It's like flying into a black hole. His knife is next and the thing comes closer. Hissing. It sounds nearly like a language. Maybe it is.

 

The woman in his arms gasps. The thing stops, smoothly holding his head up. Hisses again.

Another gasp for breath. And Hunter can see the light going out in her eyes. Just like that.

The next second the thing is gone. The woman is dead.

 

 

Hunter comes back and he looks furious. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Where the fuck were you?” Hunter shouts at him. He arches an eyebrow.

“Easy tiger …”

“No Shawn. That woman in there is dead. You hear me, dead. And you didn't fucking pick up your damn phone! I needed you in there!”

He holds his hands up defensively.

“Sorry, didn't hear it,” he says and leans back. It's not like there are no deaths in their business. Hunter should be used to it by now.

“What the fuck Shawn. Tell that her little boy on her funeral!” he screams. His voice is like thunder in the air and Shawn's heart misses a beat.

“I said I'm sorry, Hunt— ”

“Tell that her boy!” He turns around swiftly and goes back into the house.

 

 

They're on the funeral. Not as guests of course.

Hunter is silent and hasn't talked to him more than five words the days since the incident. And these five words were “We go to the funeral.” and Shawn didn't protest. He was sober because this time it was Hunter who flushed the pills down the toilet. Daring him to try and stop him. Of course he dared. And failed. Then Hunter had thrown the whiskey bottle out of the window. Fucking bastard.

Now he was here, in a cheap suit and watching from the last row tombstone number whatever.

Hunter even brought flowers.

Maybe he'd be in a better mood if he had slept the last two nights. But he fucking didn't.

 

He watches the mourning family. Then suddenly a man turns around and looks at him. Shawn shivers. The man has dark eyes, not deep brown, but black. He has grey hair and wears a smooth looking suit in navy. Still stares at him. When Shawn turns, to touch Hunter's shoulder and then looks back the man is gone. What the fuck?

He tells Hunter, but Hunter just shrugs.

 

They are on the road again. Hunter is driving. They are silent. The day turns to night, the sky drowned by rose-red clouds. Time passes by and neither of them says a word.

They are in a motel, they sleep, wake up. Hunter finds them another case. They don't talk that much, but at least they do talk. This time Shawn concentrates on the case like he usually does. It doesn't take long until they burn the bones of that ghost. When they're done, Hunter touches his shoulder. Shawn turns around and they kiss. Slowly and tenderly. And he knows Hunter has missed it, too.

 

Things are better again. They hunt, they kill.

A month later they have their first encounter with a demon. They still have the angel blade from Bret's dead 'brother' and they manage to kill the bastard after a hard fight. Hunter is in hospital for a few days. Broken leg. Shawn doesn't leave his side, except for buying coffee.

He walks up the stairs to the next floor, the coffee machine on his floor is dead. He's tired, but he doesn't want to fall asleep again. All he wants is being with Hunter, being close to him, being there when he wakes. He moves down the hallway. People pass him by. He puts his sixty cents in to buy a hot cup of coffee. In the shiny surface of the coffee machine he can see the reflection of a man in a navy suit, turning towards him. Shawn casts him a look over his shoulders.

It's that man again.

When he stares into that black eyes, for a second he is afraid. What if it is a demon? But the demon they encountered had completely black eyes. Not only the irides.

Then the man is gone again. Shawn's heart is beating fast.

 

 

Something is going on. They don't know what it is, but something is going on. There are less victims of supernatural beings. And more supernatural beings as victims.

First Shawn didn't believe it. They met another hunter who told them that the city that was swarming with demons was suddenly all clean and halos. A week later they found the bodies of those demons, floating in the river. Eyes burned out. Swelled, stinking flesh. Bodies half eaten by fish. Something was killing them.

 

They are in a diner, on a new case. They've worked their asses off just to get some shit piece of information. Shawn is pissed. Hunter is already in the motel. Probably sleeping.

Shawn sits in the darkest corner. He puts his elbows on the sticky table and props his chin on his palms. Stares into the amber fluid of his Bourbon. Something moves and he looks up. Looks into the black irides of a man. Silver hair and cold eyes. His suit dark navy, one button closed. It's the man, the man from the funeral and from the hospital.

“Who the fuck are you?” Shawn asks, hand ready on his blade.

The man smiles at him. Smugly. Son of a bitch.

“If you want you can call me Vincent. Vincent McMahon.”

“All right, _Vince_ why do you follow me? What do you want?”

“Straight to business. I like you.”

Shawn quirks an eyebrow. There is something about him … something that seems familiarly odd.

“I'm looking for someone. Maybe you know him? I think he calls himself …” He pads his index-finger against his lips. “He calls himself Hart. Bret Hart.”

 

His heart might have skipped a beat, but his facial expression doesn't change one bit. He shrugs.

“And who should that be?” No way he's telling this asshole.

“You could say he's an employee of mine. And he hasn't shown up to work for quite some time now.”

“First of all, what the fuck are you? You're not a demon and you're not a spirit.” But Shawn can already guess what he is. And it fucking scares him.

“Listen, boy, you just answer my question and you'll never see me again. Isn't that a deal?” He offers him a predator smile. The next second Shawn is up, behind that man and presses the angel blade against McMahon's jugular.

“Now listen, motherfucker, why do you look for that guy and what exactly do you want from him?”

The man doesn't even blink. All he does is letting his fingers ghost over the sharp blade.

“Where'd you get that?” he asks. Suddenly voice low and ice cold.

“None of your business. Answer the damn question or I'll slit your throat.”

 

The next moment he is gone. Startled Shawn stares at the spot where McMahon had just been sitting. No-one has noticed anything. No-one even looks in his direction.

His heart beats fast.

 

When he enters their motel room, Hunter is indeed asleep already. Shawn sighs and walks over to the bed. Thinks about calling Bret, but decides against it. What ever trouble Bret is in, it's none of his business. And he'll need all his strength tomorrow when they continue their hunt for the ghost.

 

 

 

It's a month later and they're up in Montreal, Canada. It's November and the roads are frozen. Snow has been falling for the past week and is now high up to their knees. Doesn't exactly make hunting easier. They're after a vampire and well aware that in the night time their chances have sunken low thanks to the snow. They can't move properly, they can't run and fighting is hard. That's why they look for the beast only from sunrise until sundown.

It's not even five pm when they go back to their motel, hurrying. They've drawn spells on the walls of their room, protecting them from the creatures of the night.

Shawn is tired and his back aches. All he wants is lying down and sleep for the next three days. He's so tempted to take painkillers, but he knows if he starts he'll take one too many and be fucked up and high. And Hunter is not in the best mood.

 

His stomach rumbles and he goes downstairs to buy something to eat. It takes longer than he likes for them to prepare him two cheeseburgers and two cokes. He waits, looks out of the window. Outside ice-rain is hitting on the pavement, dark clouds obscure the sky. But every now and then lightning crawls over the blackness. He curses, doesn't give a tip and goes up again. He walks down the hallway and opens the door to their room.

Something's wrong.

 

The light flickers then dies. Outside the storm is rising.

Someone is standing at the window. It's not Hunter.

Thunder. Lightning. And the shadow of wings on the dirty carpet.

“You shouldn't be surprised,” the voice slurs. McMahon.

“Where's Hunter?” Shawn asks. He feels cold. Feels like drowning. His heart beats fast.

Another lightning. Something wet glistens on the carpet. Fuck.

Slowly Shawn turns around and there he is. Thrown against the wall, limbs tangled in angles that are not possible. Shawn chokes. Hunter's blood is dark grey in the lightless room.

The next second he is at his side. Tries to fight the tears, tries to clam down. Of course it doesn't work. Fuck. Fuck! McMahon's low laughter echoes in the room.

With trembling fingers Shawn feels his pulse. It's weak, but it's there. He swallows down a sob. “He's going to die,” McMahon states.

Shawn looks up to him. Lips pressed into a tight line, eyebrows drawn together over watering eyes.

“Now, don't be angry, Shawn. You brought that upon yourself. But I'm not a cruel man. I'll give you a choice.” Shawn cups Hunter's face with his hands, draws him close.

“You can either let him die or you can tell me where Hart is and I'll save him. I'll give you the night. Tomorrow at first light you should've made a decision.”

And with these words he vanishes. All Shawn hears is a flap of wings.

 

“God, fuck,” he whispers with a trembling voice as he tries to bandage Hunter's wounds. Both his arms and legs are broken. Even his fingers are. The bones stick out partly.

He's not gonna last the night, no matter if he calls 911 or not. He doesn't even know if he'll last the next hour.

“Oh god, oh god.” He sobs, his tears dropping down his chin. “Fuck.”

He somehow manages to put him into bed, now he's next to him, face buried on Hunter's chest.

 

There's a time his tears cease flowing. He's calm now.

With wide eyes he stares into the darkness, the storm outside mute to his ears. His left hand on Hunter's cheeks, stroking softly. His ear over Hunter's mouth. His right hand on his pulse.

And then it stops.

 

 

He's over the toilet bowl, vomiting until there is nothing left to spit out. The sour smell and taste make him cough. Flushes the toilet, washes out his mouth.

He doesn't cry he just stares into the dirty mirror and he knows: It's my fault.

He can't take it. Falls to his knees, he can't breath, he can't breath.

 

He's on the bed. Hunter is getting cold. He lays himself on top of him, cradles him in his arms. Closes his eyes and pretends. Too many whispers.

 

Back in the bathroom. He's swallowed all the painkillers he has left. He waits for morning. He waits for daylight. But dawn is still far away.

 

Cries again. Vomits again. Can't breath, can't breath. Still night.

 

 

When morning finally comes he doesn't know which date it is anymore. He doesn't know where they are.

There's a flap of wings and McMahon looks down to him. Before the angel can open his mouth, Shawn whispers with a rough voice: “I'll do anything.”

McMahon smiles.

 

 

“It's very easy, just do what I tell you now …” McMahon had said.

Shawn is driving slowly into the city. The snow has melted over night. He doesn't notice. He still feels the painkillers but he doesn't feel the lack of sleep. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. He's had two lines of coke, too. Feels strangely numb inside.

He dials a number into his phone and waits for the familiar voice to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it's me. Shawn.”

“Hey. What do you want?”

“Can we meet? It's important. I'm in Montreal.”

“Oh.” Bret laughs lowly on the other line. “Well I guess I could come around. I'll be there around midnight.”

“Great. I've got something to discuss with you I don't wanna talk about on the phone …”

“Yeah, all right. See ya.”

Bret hangs up.

 

 

Shawn waits in a bar. He's certain Bret knows where he is. It's always been like that when he called him to meet up. Not that they did it often, but the few times Bret never asked for the place where Shawn was staying. He just came around.

Shawn gulps down his Jacky and smacks the glass back on the next table as someone enters the crowded bar. It's dark in here and it's loud. He didn't get a table and just leans at the wall. He got some more painkillers. The mixture of them and alcohol starting to take its toll.

Then Bret is there and they are talking and touching. For a heartbeat Shawn just closes his eyes, enjoying the warm and heavy body against his. Breathing in his scent. He smells like Aramis and Shawn kisses his neck, bites down. Bret's moan close to his ear.

 

They're outside and the sky is heavy with clouds. It's so cold it's hurting, but Bret isn't cold, Bret is hot against his skin. Then they're in the Impala, kissing roughly and when they stop, their hands touch tenderly.

Shawn is driving. Bret is looking out of the window. A smile tugging on his lips and he murmurs one word. “Home.”

Shawn looks up at him, the street blurring before his eyes as he turns back.

“Wha' cha mean?” he slurs.

“Canada is where I first set foot on earth, where I stayed the longest time.”

 

They're in the hallway and Bret shoves him against the wall. Their lips nearly touching. He grabs a fistful of Shawn's shirt and yanks him closer, then back against the wall, pinning him with his body. Shawn doesn't react. “What is it with you tonight?”

Shawn doesn't answer. Instead he says: “Kiss me like you mean it.”

And Bret does and maybe he really means it. But Shawn doesn't know and Shawn doesn't feel a damn thing except for the void and the guilt. He doesn't manage to smile as he opens the door to his room and pulls Bret in.

Bret startles. His breath hitches as he looks McMahon right in the eye.

 

“ _Bret_. Haven't seen you in a while.”

Bret is silent, then turns his gaze to Shawn. His lips part, but he doesn't say a word.

“Well, good to see you. We all really missed you upstairs. You had your fun, now it's time to go back.” McMahon takes a step closer, his lips twisted into a smile that promises punishment.

Again Bret turns to him.

“Shawn … were you in on that?” he murmurs.

“C'mon. Give the boy a break. He had a rough night,” McMahon says and points nonchalantly at the bed. Bret's eyes widen as he recognizes Hunter's corpse.

“He had to choose, so he chose,” McMahon continues. Shawn feels sick as he looks at Bret.

And slowly the betrayal sinks in into Bret's dark eyes. He shakes his head slightly.

Is it so hard to believe? After all, they don't even like each other.

Bret takes a step forward and spits into his face. Shawn just turns around. Moves to the bed and sinks down before it, resting his head on Hunter's cold chest.

“You lying little shit!” Bret shouts, “Fuck you. Fuck you and your boy toy. I hope he rots in he _—_ !”

His voice is cut off.

Silence.

 

 

He doesn't recognize he has fallen asleep until warm hands cup his cheeks and he wakes up.

“Hey,” says Hunter.

Shawn can't answer. He tries to blink the tears away. The room is clean, free from blood.

Hunter. Yes Hunter is here. And he leans down and kisses him gently, brushing strands of dirty blond hair out of his face. He claws his fingers into Hunter's back. The flesh warm and livid. The younger man hisses at the touch but doesn't move away.

“Shhht. It's okay, Shawn. It's okay. Sleep. Just sleep.”

 

When he awakes the second time the sun is warm on his skin. He slowly opens his eyes and sits up. He's alone, but there are Hunter's clothes thrown over the chair.

He feels sick and dirty, so he gets up, tumbles into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. After that he takes a bath. His stomach and his muscles relaxing in the hot water. Hunter is alive.

He can't hold back the tears that slip from his eyes and mix with the water. He's so fucking happy.

 

But yet he's not sure what happened after the angels disappeared. Everything's clean, there's not even a stain where Hunter bled out. And died. But the blood is still underneath his fingernails. He hurries to wash it off.

 

He's not sure what he expected, but when Hunter comes back with coffee and a blank look on his face, he shudders. Does Hunter know what happened? Does he remember … dying?

Or is this just another night for him where he had to comfort Shawn?

The alcohol and the drugs are still in his system and he feels shattered. His head aches and his stomach feels like it wants to vomit itself out. Shawn's not sure if he should have that coffee now.

Hunter places it on the desk and takes a sip of his own coffee. They don't talk. And life just goes on.

 

 

He hasn't talked about it to Hunter, but the images still haunt him. His twisted limbs. His blood dark grey in the night. And of course he does what he shouldn't. He drowns the images in even more J.D. and at times he's so high on pain killers the world blurs before his eyes and he barely stays awake. His moods are like a roller-coaster ride and he can't blame Hunter for slowly becoming sick of it.

Maybe that's just what he has coming.

Why he thought everything would change after Hunter's death he doesn't know anymore. Why he thought it'd get better.

 

It's an hour before dawn, it's January and they're somewhere down in Maryland. Despite the cold they lean on the Impala and look into the dark sky. In the east the clouds are a few shades lighter but in the the west the moon is still full and gleaming. Shawn wonders if there might really be a man up there, watching them. Maybe there is. And if there is, what would he see?

Two exhausted men.

 

He watches Hunter smoking. When did he start smoking? Fine dirty-white lines in the air.

Shawn moves closer and Hunter doesn't look down to him. Just stares up into the sky.

They're at a break between cases. But to be honest there is never a real break between cases. If they don't fight demons in reality they still have their nightmares to deal with.

Leaning back at the Impala a bit more, he inhales deeply. Clear and cold air. He reaches for Hunter's hand and his fingers are warm.

“Do you regret it?” he asks into the silence. Hunter doesn't answer.

 

 

When what they do feels more and more like something he has to do, he starts to notice.

He's loosing it. Saving people— shouldn't it feel good?

It's more and more like a job to him. Hunter isn't leaving him, but maybe he should. Shawn remembers the first weeks when Hunter had chosen to stay with him permanently. Now it seems he just hangs on. How did that happen?

 

It takes him two more months to make a decision. It's April and the trees are green again. Lush colours everywhere, the scent of flowers in the air.

It's the morning after a quiet night after one of their cases as he places a note on Hunter's side of the bed. Careful not to wake him he leaves the room. He takes all of Hunter's stuff out of the trunk and silently puts it in their room.

Then he leaves.

 

 

First Hunter tries to call him. He doesn't answer. After two weeks the calls become less and less until after a month they stop completely. It takes all his strength not to answer them. But it's better that way and they both know it.

It takes him another month of heavy drinking and too many painkillers before he thinks about checking in to rehab.

It's a task harder than any case he's ever had. It's a fight against his body for his body. For his life. But god, it sometimes is just easier to drown all the shit with a good old bottle of Bourbon.

Rehab is not like a straight line from addict to clean, it's more a constant fight, constantly trying to make the right decision and failing to do so as often as succeeding.

Somewhere down the lane he finds god. Kind of. He's aware that his image of Him could easily be just something he's wishing for. He hasn't forgotten what McMahon did. But He still comforts him in the darkest hours of the night. It just feels right.

 

He dreams of Hunter nearly every night when he's not dreaming of blood and guilt. These are dreams with the taste of fever and whiskey. When he awakes he feels drunk and dizzy. Then he's angry because he can't have him nor the whiskey. And then it hurts.

 

Time passes by so god-damn slowly that he wants to quit the shit every two weeks. But he stays strong. Even if he has his downs and the times he drinks again or does pain killers, the longer he stays the longer he can stay clean, too. And he knows this time it's about life or death. He mustn't fail in the end.

 

 

When he's on the road again it's like it is the first time all over again. It's late August and the rain is pouring down on the highway. He has the window pulled down and breathes in the smell of the wet road and trees. Guns 'n Roses _November Rain_ is blasting ear-shattering from the speakers. He hums along. He's on the way to his next case.

It feels good doing this sober. It doesn't feel saver though, but he knows it is. He changes the tape to _Appetite for Destruction_ and skips the tracks until _Sweet Child O' Mine_.

“Where do we go now? Oh, where do we go now? Sweet child ah ah ah ah ah …” he sings along off-tune.

Two hours later he's past Skid Row, Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and arrives at the village where recently a series of strange deaths happened.

 

So far there are eight victims, all of them had their mouths burned out. Smells like some witch's mojo to him, or might be a revengeful ghost. Here he is to find out.

It's strange and familiar at the same time to be lonely. He's been lonely the longest time of his life, but the last months he was constantly with people and before that there was Hunter.

But he has work to occupy him, so that's what he does.

 

He investigates in his cheap suit, is an FBI agent again. It still works.

Trying to find similarities between the vics, he discovers they all worked for the same charity organisation. Based on the local church they did events collecting money. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the deeper Shawn digs the more blurs the history of that organisation. They use the creative name AW: Angels' Wings.

He thinks of Bret and Vince and his stomach twists. He wonders what has become of Bret, but tries to suck it up. Not thinking about it. Still can't forget the moment the betrayal sank into Bret's dark eyes. Shaking his head he concentrates on the task at hand, which is digging deeper.

He makes home visits. Every time he talks to a lady thinks work easier. Eventually he's pointed in a certain direction. There was a child missing a few months ago. A little boy who's never been found.

He slowly gets the sense that this little boy is dead and probably haunting them.

 

A few days later that's proved when he's present as he attacks his new vic.

He never finds out what happened to that boy, only that he's dead.

It's a hot and moist night as he stands upon his grave behind the church and salts and burns his bones. The church bells ring. Three hours after midnight.

 

 

Cases never cease. There is always something happening. Someone dying. Someone murdering.

It's a Sisyphean undertaking to save people, but he has known that all along.

Time and the states of the USA pass him by. It's autumn, it's winter. Snow is falling down, softly and pure and he spends Christmas in a motel room, mould on the ceiling and the shower not in use.

He knows it's a cliché but he really misses Hunter. Most of the time he doesn't even dare thinking his name, but now he remembers the Christmases with him. The same dirty motel rooms, but plus whiskey and Hunter laughing and them watching crap television. Same shitty movies as every year. Of course they complained, but honest truth is they had been happy.

 

It's February when Shawn passes by Greenwich, Hunter's old home. He stops, pulls down the window and imagines Hunter has gone home and continues his old life now.

Of course that's a lie. Once you step into that life you only get out to either climb up- or downstairs.

Turning the volume of AC/DC up, he speeds away.

 

 

He might have found god, but that doesn't mean he can't have a little fun once in a while. He doesn't drink as much but neither does he need to to hook up with a girl. She's a hot brunette with high heels and a tight black dress and she definitely got those pouty lips perfect for a blowjob. The night long she's fun, eventhough they end up drinking beer on the Impala and philosophising in the cold about life. With a bit of occasional fumbling and kissing.

 

 

It's April and the sun stands high and the wind is finally not stabbing his skin like daggers anymore. Life is strange and yet he's never been happier to be alive. That's a good sign, he decides.

Then it's March, already, and he wonders where the time went so fast. Every new year seems a bit shorter than the one before.

It's raining and the windows of the Impala are damp from his breath. He's parked at a drive-in and chews on his cheeseburger. In his left hand he tries to hold a news paper, reading. The pages with the death notices include a high number of “death by burned out eyes”.

He thinks of the AW case, but this time the number of deaths nears the 200 so it's probably something big. Something bad. Demons?

 

 

The more he investigates, the more confused he gets. If what he's found out so far is true, then the vics where all people possessed by demons. Which means, someone is killing them _again_.

He drives east to New York because that's where the last vics appeared. He's an hour close as his eyes fall shut for a split second. He awakes with adrenaline rushing through his veins. The next second he's decided to stay at that crappy motel he has seen five minutes ago. He drives back and checks in.

The sheets are clean for once and he falls into them with a quiet sigh.

When he awakes it's five minutes after midnight. A nearby church-bell woke him up. He decides to stay the night and turns on the TV. He's lucky and catches the last minutes of the news.

The news speaker tells him about the sudden deaths in New York, and that the FBI is investigating them now. They talk about a serial killer, maybe a whole murder family.

Well, isn't that lovely, Shawn thinks and folds his hands under his head.

 

He dreams of Hunter.

They are in a little church back in San Antonio where he spent the few happy years of his childhood. Hunter is dressed as a priest but his smile and laugh are just Hunter. They walk outside to the church yard and stare into a bright blue sky. Not one cloud to be seen. Sunshine warm on his skin.

“Where do we go now?” Hunter asks, quietly, in earnest.

Shawn looks up to him.

“I don't know, Hunt. I don't know.”

And Hunter smiles.

 

It's still early in the morning when Shawn awakes a second time. He takes his bag, buys coffee and bagels in the diner next to the motel and is on his way again.

It takes him forever to get into the city. New York is loud and busy and the streets are nearly bursting. It's a hot day and the exhaust fumes make the thick air even worse.

Shawn changes clothes in a toilet close to his parking lot and emerges as a FBI agent. Fortunately for him he's a good liar and it doesn't take him long to convince the other FBI agents he's back-up. The thing is, they have nearly zero information, only little more than he already knows from the news.

But one thing he didn't know: This kind of murder is happening all over the world, not just the USA. Now that's something.

 

He takes a look at the corpses, there are no traces that a demon did that to a demon. The dead bodies seem strangely clean.

Shawn's biting into his burger as he notices.

“Fuck!” he nearly shouts and pieces of his burger go flying. It's the fucking angels! That whole shit happened the last time when Vince appeared.

He has to admit this might be a number too big for him alone.

 

 

The day is ending and the sun goes down. Rose-red light, reflected by glass and steel, mirrored in the skyscrapers.

He leans at the Impala and watches the sky over this busy city. Maybe it's time.

His heart beats fast and his fingers tremble as he dials the number.

“Hello?” he hears the familiar voice.

“It's me, Hun'ner. I need your help.”

He's fucking sure his heart misses a beat as Hunter inhales slowly.

“Well, where are you, bitch?”

“Right in New York. Jerk. You comin'?”

“I'm on my way.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write this. If only for the sake of Hunter being a hunter and imagining Shawn in the Impala and Bret as an angel.  
> Unbeta'd.  
> Thanks for reading!


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